What We Remember: Two Landmarks

Troncones isn’t an old town—not by most measures. There are no centuries-old churches, no cobbled zócalos with worn-down stone steps. The stories here don’t echo from cathedrals or libraries. They linger in the beach sand and salt air, in bars that no longer stand, in cafés now wearing new names.

It’s a town built by memory and two places, in particular, carry more of that memory than most—The Burro Borracho and Café Sol. What they were, how they came to be, and what they left behind still shape this community, even if their signs have long since come down.

The Burro Borracho: Where it All Began

Before Troncones was a surf destination, before the yoga retreats and sushi, there was a restaurant in a house called Casa Tortuga. The year was 1991, maybe ’92, and Dewey McMillan, one of the original outsiders to settle the land here, was running a small restaurant out of his home. It quickly became too popular to stay there.

So Dewey met with Anita LaPointe, another early expat and supporter of the town’s growth. She agreed to finance a new venture. The location? A stretch of the beach where Fonatur, the government agency that builds Mexico’s tourist zones, had abandoned a half-hearted 1970s attempt to turn Troncones into the next Ixtapa. All that remained were unfinished stone buildings—no roofs, no windows. Just ghosts and salt.

Dewey and Anita sat in the ruins, drinking and dreaming up names. And as if summoned, a group of burros wandered out from one of the empty shells. Dewey, in true form, said: “Why don’t we call it the Burro Borracho?” The name stuck.

That fall, in time for high season, the Burro Borracho opened. And for a while, it was the place to be. There was nowhere else. It served food, poured drinks, hosted regional dancers from Pantla and held fundraisers that helped build school classrooms. Weddings, posadas, quinceañeras—all happened there. It wasn’t just a dive bar. It was the only room in town with music and light.

And sometimes, the lights were bright. Keith Richards stopped by. Xaviera Hollander, better known as The Happy Hooker, paid a visit. Musicians on retreat—guests of the record producer who owns Casa Teresa—would sit in and play under other names. The Red Hot Chili Peppers played once. So did Bob Siebenberg, Supertramp drummer, as did Warren Entner of The Grassroots.

But beyond the names, it was a school. Many locals learned the restaurant trade inside those walls—cooking, serving, managing. Some went on to open their own hotels, restaurants, or become lifelong professionals in the industry. The owners of Hotel Eden, Jim and Ava, started there.

Ownership shifted: from Dewey to include Michael Bensal (now at the Inn at Manzanillo Bay), and later to Vladimir, who ran it during the town’s first true tourism boom. The land was always leased from the ejido, never privately owned. Eventually, around 2007, Vladimir stepped away.

That’s when Roberto Rosas transformed it into Roberto’s Bistro—a rustic Argentine-style steakhouse with open fires, baked potatoes and damn good meat. He kept the music alive. Some nights, live rock covers filled the air. Other nights brought folkloric dancing under the stars. That lasted until 2023, when Roberto moved on and the space changed hands again.

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Now it’s Chiringuito de Fran—an elegant Spanish tapas restaurant known for craft cocktails and paella. More refined, quieter. But the bones are the same. The building remembers. And still, people arrive and ask, Where’s the Burro? What happened to the Burro Borracho? It’s gone. And it isn’t.

Café Sol: The Town’s Living Room

Where the Burro was wild, Café Sol was warm.

Christian Schirmer, a chef from California, started it after first running Cocina del Sol inside Hotel Eden. He leased a building across from the beach—courtesy of a man named Jack Lazenski—and opened Café Sol with his father Paul.

It was two places in one. Mornings meant breakfast and strong coffee. Pastries, brownies, and cookies made with care. American-style baking in a town that had never tasted it before. Sandwiches in the afternoons. And upstairs, come evening, a full bar and grill with rotating specials—burgers, fresh catch, whatever Christian felt like cooking.

But what really made Café Sol matter was the television. It was one of the only places in town where you could watch a game, an election or the Oscars with company. The Seahawks were practically a religion there—West Coasters gathering like family. When Barack Obama won his first term, people watched it unfold from that upstairs bar. It wasn’t a café. It was a living room the town shared.

And again, like the Burro, it taught people. Locals learned how to bake. How to cook. How to work under a real chef. Skills they carried forward into jobs and businesses of their own.

Christian’s best friend Duane, a former football player, worked beside him. Duane was beloved—quiet strength, kind hands. When he died, it left a hole. Café Sol never quite recovered. It lingered without management for a while, then closed. The building sat quiet. Until recently.

The owners of Cuattro Ciclos, a café in Zihuatanejo, bought the property. They preserved the trees, the vegetation, the feeling. But the building was taken down and replaced with a modern, air-conditioned café. It’s open six days a week, serving exquisite pastries, coffees and lunches. It’s a beautiful place. It belongs.

But people still ask about Café Sol. About Christian. About Duane. About that Seahawks game. About that time the bar ran out of cookies and someone cried.

These places aren’t just old businesses. They’re Troncones. The parts that built the rest. They’re the places that taught people how to cook, how to host, how to gather.

They’re how the town came to be. And how it came not to be. And what it still carries in its bones.